A Different Perspective
by RainThestral93
Summary: When Hermione Granger embarks on her journey of learning at Hogwarts; the last thing she was anticipating was for a crafty bit of magic involving the Sorting Hat to be noticed by Professor Dumbledore. Will her advanced knowledge have repercussions for the Gryffindor bookworm? And are Fred and George really the kind of people she ought to be mixing with?
1. An Early Start

**Disclaimer:** I just thought I'd let you know that I'm not JK Rowling, in case you thought I was the goddess herself, posing on the internet under the pseudonym 'RainThestral93'. Unfortunately, I'll never be as good as her royal highness of literature, and all characters are hers and hers alone. That will be all.

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**A/N: **My intentions for this Fic are not yet decided. If it's met with good reception then I might consider re-writing the entire _Harry Potter_ series from Hermione's perspective. But for now I'll settle for writing the happenings of her first year. This is _The Philosopher's Stone_... but it's from an entirely different point of view. Let me know what you think; constructive criticsm is always very much appreciated. What d'you think of eleven year old Hermione Granger and her introduction into the world of magic? - Beth :) xx

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**Chapter One: An Early Wake Up Call**

Hermione Granger had spent the better part of the morning pacing up and down in her bedroom. Eleven years old, and with a well-formed sense of what she wanted out of life, she was eager to begin the first step along a route that spelled out nothing but success. "Mum," she called, the angst apparent in her voice as she yelled down the stairs, "Would you _please_ tell Dad that he's already brushed his teeth and he doesn't need to do it again?! We need to _go_," the budding young witch exclaimed.

"Hermione Jean Granger," the girl's mother chided, "Don't you dare use that bossy tone of voice with me. I am your _mother_and I will not be told what to do by my daughter. Understood?" It was pretty clear where Hermione got said "tone of bossiness" from.

"Yes Mum," the girl had conceded meekly, and within half an hour of her moaning, the mother, father and daughter, as well as a cat carrier and oversized suitcase, no doubt packed with as many books as the baggage could contain, were on their way to King's Cross Station.

"Hurry up Dad," a nervous Hermione urged, willing the dial on the car speedometer to increase. Whether it was through sheer will power, or some of this undiscovered magic that Hermione had been reading about, the needle slowly crept upwards until Jean Granger leant over and tutted.

"William! You're going well above eighty miles per hour, slow down!" and he had proceeded to do just that, not wanting to anger his wife. Hermione humped, and sat back in her seat, arms crossed, and fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on her bicep. Nobody listened to eleven year olds when it came to time management, she sighed.

Jean Granger rolled her eyes. She was sure that if Hermione put her mind to it then she could get this traffic to go a bit faster; what with her recently discovered magic powers and all… then again, Jean Granger still wasn't one hundred per cent sure just how this whole magic thing was meant to work.

She shrugged. Having always been a big believer in the impossible; it had come as no shock to her when she discovered her child was gifted, not only with exceptional intelligence and academic prowess, but with an ability to perform magic. Her husband, however, had had a harder time coming to terms with it. She supposed he probably thought he was in a bizarre dream from which he expected to wake from sooner or later. He would be in for a shock, his wife chuckled.

When they had finally reached the station, securing a place to park and got one of those trollies that you can wheel your luggage on, Hermione trotted off down the platform, her gleaming ticket clutched eagerly on her hand. The old wizard who'd come to explain things to her parents had instructed her on how to get onto the platform, and all the background reading she'd done on the Hogwarts Express had dismissed any fears she could have had about running straight at a brick wall and expecting to pass right through it.

"Dad," Hermione sighed as she practically ran through the throngs of people, pushing her oversized trolley with her, "Would you _please_ hurry up. I don't want to miss the train!"  
"Slow down Hermione, I'm going to have a heart attack if you go any faster!" Her bespectacled father chuckled as he raced after his little girl, struggling to keep up.

"Sorry, Dad," Hermione winced and forced herself to slow down a miniscule amount. "I just really _really_want to be on time. The train leaves for Hogwarts at eleven."

"I understand that, pumpkin," Mr Granger said, indulging his daughter. "But thanks to your prompt wakeup call at seven am sharp, we have plenty of time. It's only ten-thirty." At this admission, Hermione had the tact to look somewhat sheepish. It had been the nerves that had woken her, and too excited to wait for her first day at magic school, she had woken her parents up somewhat earlier than they functioned. She supressed a smirk.

Somewhat mollified by this announcement, the bushy haired brunette drew in a deep breath and deliberately tried to walk at a slower pace to placate her parents. She was barely managing to keep her usually calm and collected composure – her heart was still thumping as manically as it had been when her parents had introduced her to Professor Dumbledore, and explained the workings of attending a magical boarding school.

Any other muggle child, upon receiving such news, would normally retreat into a state of shock, cry, and perhaps even refuse to attend the school. Not Hermione. The young girl had recovered from the discovery sheer minutes after her parents explanation, and had proceeded to hurtle questions at breakneck speed to a bemused Professor Dumbledore, who she learnt was the head of her school.

Out of all the lists of things which students were required to possess whilst attending Hogwarts, the extensive reading list had been the thing that most triggered the interest of Dr. Granger's daughter. She'd spent hours poring over the reading material in Flourish and Blotts, located in Diagon Alley, where her parents and she had spent a day gathering school supplies. Having a rather large and unspent wad of money from birthdays past, Hermione had bought herself one of two titles for a bit of bedtime reading. She'd read them cover to cover, numerous times of course, since her purchase, as well as all the compulsory books for the first years. Her favourite had been _One Hundred and One Famous Witches and Wizards from the British Isles _by Persephone Hilton; she'd come across a rather peculiar chapter on a boy called Harry Potter, who had defeated an evil wizard when he was a mere baby. He was about Hermione's age, she mused. What would it be like to meet him, she wondered?

It had been with hidden anxieties that Hermione vigorously tore through her new reading material, anxious to make a good impression and not seem out of place amongst all of the students who had grown up as part of a wizarding family. Whilst she was nervous, Hermione felt prepared to face whatever Hogwarts had to throw at her, and she put on a resolute expression, linking her arm through her mother's for this was the last chance she would have in a while to do so. Hermione suspected she would miss her parents, whilst away, but she had told herself that she would deal with homesickness if and when it became a problem. At eleven years old, Hermione Granger was already the most practical person her parents had ever known.

Being from at a disadvantage to the other children, what with having grown up in a Muggle family (Hermione had learnt from Professor Dumbledore that a "muggle" was a non-magical person, like her parents), wasn't Hermione's sole concern. She was also astutely aware of her own stubbornness, unwillingness to compromise, and her harsh tongue. Over the years, in more situation than one, this had illustrated to the young witch the difficulty that she had making and maintaining friendships. Other eleven year olds weren't quite as mature as Hermione Granger, and this was a small worm of doubt that was currently wriggling away in Hermione's stomach.

Putting on a brave face, Hermione shook herself and told the seed of doubt that this year would be different to all her failed relationships in the past. This new school would be different, she promised herself. In a magical school full of children different to those in the outside world, surely an oddball like Hermione Jean Granger would find someone like minded who she could bond with?

Unlike some of the other eleven year olds, who Hermione suspected already harboured petty insecurities about the way that they looked, the young witch was more than happy with her appearance. She wasn't mind numbingly beautiful; a fact which she was acutely aware of, but she was average looking, and for a girl with a bigger than average brain, this was plenty enough.

Anyone looking at the eleven year old would see an unruly mane of curls – inherited from her father's side of the gene pool – in a dark lustrous brown, a colour her mother often likened to the colour of chocolate. Hermione liked this description much more than the one her old school bullies had stuck with throughout her primary education of "birds nest hair". She sighed. Some people had _no_ appreciation for the world around them.

Her eyes were your average brown and plain, but Hermione's were laced with intelligence and an understanding of concepts that greatly surpassed her age range.

She was somewhat lanky, with the knobbly knees and elbows that you saw more commonly on an eleven year old boy. She was a late developer, her mother reasoned, or at least this was her reason for her daughter's distinct lack of breasts. She had assured the girl that they'd come sooner or later, to which Hermione had retorted she "couldn't care less". Jean had chuckled; her daughter was far more like her husband than herself.

William Granger interrupted his daughter's reverie by peering over her shoulder and glancing at her ticket. He was looking backwards and forward between the ticket that clearly stated "Platform Nine and ¾" and the signs of the wall that showed Platforms 9 and 10. He looked confused, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She suspected her father would take a while to get used to this.

Her mother was equally confused. "I can't see any signs for Platform 9 ¾," she announced with a sniff. "William, can you see it?"

With a slight sigh, Hermione walked over to her parents, leaving her trolley neatly parked by them, and gestured to a nearby brick wall. "The wall is enchanted so that people who don't know about the magical world don't find it by accident," she explained. "Professor Dumbledore said that all we have to do is walk straight at the wall between the platforms nine and ten." She announced, as if reading instructions from a cookery book.

"Right then," Her father announced, as he rubbed his hands together; a sign which Hermione had come to recognise as his display of nervousness. "I suppose we better do it."

"Come on, Mum," Hermione whined, as she took her mother's hand in her own, firmly, knowing that the woman wouldn't move of her own her accord. Her feet were very much firmly glued to the platform. Hermione took a few brisk steps forwards, threading her arm through her father's and taking her trolley in both hands.

She started forwards at a stumbled kind of run, knowing that by the time she worked herself up to getting through the barrier, she'd slow considerably anyway, her nerves taking their toll. Her parents were dragged along with her, nothing able to prepare them for the spectacle they were about to be assaulted by. "Stick close to me," eleven year old Hermione Granger firmly told her parents, as they disappeared through the brick wall of Kings Cross Station.

Hermione's mouth fell open in amazement as she surveyed the scene in front of her. A glimmering scarlet coloured train with the name "Hogwarts Express" emblazoned across its face stood pride of place on the gleaming tracks. A neat clock showed the time; a quarter to eleven. She had made good timing, she smiled happily. She would have plenty of time to look around, take everything in, for this whole world was as new to her as it was her parents.

People hurried about the platform in a multitude of different directions; people hurrying forwards, pushing trolleys piled high with suitcases, or people hurrying backwards to collect a beloved pet they'd forgotten. There were elegant looking women wearing flowing black robes; there was a mass of men chattering excitably whilst holding onto the hands of youngsters, wearing colourful gowns and pointed hats. Then of course there were people not dissimilar to herself; wearing looks of amazement as they undoubtedly viewed the station for the first time. One woman was waving her wand – which Hermione had thought looked rather like a tree branch, when she'd first purchased hers – and had managed to lift a suitcase into the air. She struggled to shut her mouth – for she knew it was rude – and yet she was astounded to see so many brilliant things all at once.

A tall, rather bossy old woman with greying hair, emerald green robes and what looked to be a dead fox slung around her neck, carried a red handbag and wore a tall pointed had with a bird of some sorts perched upon it. She was pushing and shoving a chubby little boy, already dressed in his Hogwarts uniform; a fact, which Hermione noted with distaste, was already covered in grime. The boy was looking perplexed, as he struggled to keep a grip on the large toad that he held in both his hands, and didn't appear to be really listening when what Hermione assumed was his grandmother trailed off a list of instructions.

"Now Neville, it's very important that you listen to me. Do not put your wand down; hold it either in your hand or put it inside your robes. You will be in big trouble if you lose it; after all a wizard's wand is his most prized possession." At this, Hermione sniffed. She supposed that a wizard (or witch)'s greatest possession was their intellect. She sniffed, and continued to eavesdrop on the conversation, as it was clear her parents were still struggling to take everything in.

"You must keep an eye on Trevor, he's your pet and you ought to look after him. I've packed his food and everything in your luggage, so no need to worry. Good luck, my dear. Your Mum and Dad would be so proud, were they here." And Hermione supposed that the boy's parents must be preoccupied, perhaps they were working.

She pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead, causing a blush to cross his face. At the last moment she added, "I've sewn your name into your clothes so that if you lose them they'll always find their way back to you. OK?" The boy nodded meekly, seeming overwhelmed by all the information the old woman was imposing upon him.

Hermione smiled reassuringly up and her Mum, and then cast a look in her Dad's direction. He had already wandered off, and was so enthralled by the stuff around him, he didn't see the short and stout man he collided with, until it was too late.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry," Her Dad had hurried, "Please don't tell me you're going to turn me into a rubber duck, are you?"

The collision victim chuckled. "No harm done… first time on the platform?" He asked sympathetically, and her father nodded. "Arthur Weasley. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." The redheaded wizard grinned, before squeezing her Dad's hand warmly.

"Dr. William Granger," he introduced himself rather stiffly.

"Pardon me asking," the redheaded man asked rather timidly, "But you don't happen to be a muggle, do you?" Fortunately, her father was well-briefed on the meaning of the word, and was soon deeply engaged in conversation with the man he'd bumped into, and it seemed, was trying to explain the concept of a tennis racket using hand gestures. Hermione rolled her eyes; trust her Dad to embarrass her on one of the most important days of her life.

Jean cleared her throat, making her and Hermione's presence known to the two chattering men. William Granger coughed apologetically. "Ah, pardon me, Arthur; this is my wife, Jean, and my daughter Hermione. It's her first year at Hogwart's," he announced, brimming with pride as he did so.

Arthur grinned and shook Jean's hand warmly, before clasping Hermione's in his sweaty palm.  
"First year at Hogwarts, eh?"

Hermione nodded.

"I went to Hogwarts myself, you know," the friendly wizard told her. "I know exactly how nervous you must be feeling at this moment in time, but trust me when I say that Hogwarts is where you'll experience some of the best moments in your life. My son Ron's about to embark on his first year, too," Arthur announced excitably.

"He must be around here somewhere," he mused, as he looked around. "I'm sure you two will get along like a house on fire – you could be best friends!" The man exclaimed excitably.

Completely unable to form a coherent sentence, Hermione simply blushed became bizarrely fascinated by her shoelaces.

A plump bossy-looking woman called Arthur and he hastily bid the family goodbye. "Well, the best of luck, Hermione," he said, smiling kindly and warranting a smile from Hermione herself, in response.


	2. Making Friends & Enemies

**Chapter Two: Making Friends & Enemies**

Given that it was now nearly eleven, the platform was a flurry of activity, and there were far too many families present for Hermione's liking – she could barely see a metre in front of her, what with the annoyingly tall adults blocking her view. She sighed exasperatedly, and told her Dad to go put her trunk on the train. He willingly trotted off – not minding being ordered around by his own daughter, for he was in awe of the entire situation. He left Jean Granger stood with her only daughter smiling fondly at the bright child, preparing to say her goodbyes.

"So are you quite sure you've not forgotten anything? Robes? School books? Your wand?" Hermione's mother fussed, and almost laughed at the pointed look that her daughter threw her.

Of course she wouldn't have forgotten anything; she was the most organised eleven year old there ever was.

She reached up and threw her arms round her mother's neck, burrowing her face in her neck and inhaling her scent. It would be a while before she was next able to see her parents – and the last thing she wanted to do was forget them. Hermione suspected that this was one of the dangers of attending a boarding school.

"You'll write to me won't you?" Hermione pressed, and her mother smiled fondly down at her.

"Every week without fail, promise. Now be good – the train's about to leave," She pointed out. Hermione inhaled sharply, and embraced her father in an awkward side hug. He'd made it back just in time to say his goodbyes.

"If you don't like it we'll bring you back, no questions asked OK, pet," Her Dad instructed, and Hermione rolled her eyes. It was just like her Dad to worry and think she shouldn't hack it.

"I'll be fine, Dad, _promise_," She reassured them, as she placed fleeting kisses on both their cheeks and made to clamber onto the train before her mother's tears got even more out of control. But Hermione shot a look around – it seemed her Mother wasn't the only one crying, for there were wet cheeks all around the platform, with parents consoling younger siblings and telling them that it would be their turn sooner or later. Hermione smiled as she recognised the friendly wizard who her Dad had bumped into – he was squeezing the hand of a girl slightly younger than Hermione, as she whined about wanting to attend the school.

After another smattering of kisses from her parents, Hermione finally found herself on the train, and sighed in relief as she collapsed into an empty compartment, drawing the door close to block out the chattering of the other students on the train. Precisely on the dot, at eleven 'o' clock, Hermione found herself waving as the big steam train pulled out of the platform, and her parents smiled fondly as they watched their daughter begin her magical journey.

Hermione settled back into her seat, thankful for the peace and quiet given that nobody had tried to join her in the compartment. She took out one of the thicker tomes she'd selected for additional reading, and began reading about the _Theory of Spell work_ with a furrowed look of concentration on her face. If she kept up this pace, she mused, then she'd likely be able to make a start on one of the other three books she'd brought with her.

Hard as she tried, she couldn't seem to concentrate – whether it was the steady rocking motion as the train chugged along, or the chattering of the students outside the compartment, she didn't know. A small chubby boy – the one who's grandmother had been chiding him about losing his possessions on the platform popped his head round the door.

"Would you mind if I sat in here with you? Everywhere else is full," he explained apologetically, and Hermione shrugged non-committedly. Just as the boy swung his shoulder bag through the door, the blistered looking toad leapt out of his hands and raced down the corridor of the train. "Trevor!" The boy yelped, his eyes wide and frantic.

"Would you like me to help you find him?" Hermione asked sympathetically. The poor boy was clearly useless.

"Ah," he smiled at her, "That'd be great thanks. Nan'll kill me if I lose him. I'm Neville by the way," he introduced himself.

"Hermione," she smiled, shaking the hand he offered her, before discreetly wiping it on her robes as the boy looked away, "Hermione Granger. I'll take that way, you go that way," she ordered, and Neville bustled off in the direction she hadn't pointed. She sighed, and went in the opposite direction to the one she'd said she would take.

She reached a compartment with two boys in; one with red hair who _had_ to be related to her Dad's newfound friend. Perhaps this was Ron, the one that Arthur Weasley had told her about? And the other boy had raven hair and wore glasses, which Hermione noted with distaste, were bound with cello-tape. The red head was relatively tall for his age, and he looked rather gangly and misshapen, with large hands and ridiculously sized feet. He had a largish nose, liberally spattered with freckles, and with another sniff, Hermione noticed a smidge of dirt.  
She brazenly opened the door. "Have either of you two seen a toad? A boy called Neville's lost one."

"No?" The boy she assumed to be Ron said bluntly.

"Oh. Well if you see it, let me know." She surveyed the two boys – she'd clearly interrupted something. Then she noticed the redhead had his wand pointing and what looked to be a rat. "Are you doing magic?" She asked, amazed.

"Well, it's a spell my brother gave me to turn Scabbers yellow," he admitted. "I'm not sure if it's any good."

"Let's see then," she demanded bossily, her inquisition getting the better of her, and the redhead cleared his throat nervously.

There were no noticeable effects of the spell, and in all honesty Hermione was a bit put out – she wasn't very impressed. "Are you sure that's a _real _spell?" She asked, and the freckled boy sulked, sitting back into his seat sullenly.

"It's just I've tried a few basic spells, and they've all worked for me –" She announced proudly. "And I'm Muggle born. See this for instance." She pointed her want right at the bridge of the raven haired boys nose and his eyes widened in alarm. "Oculus Reparo," she enunciated clearly, and within a flash, the boy's glasses were fixed and looking good as new. He stared at her in amazement, and Hermione noticed a scar on his forehead.

"Blimey, are you Harry Potter? It's just I read about you in _Famous Wizards and Witches," _Hermione gushed, "I'm Hermione Granger." She stuck her hand in Harry's face, and he shook it, bemused at the frizzy haired loony girl in front of him.

Ron looked put out at being ignored, and decided to introduce myself. "Ronald. Ronald Weasley," he announced, and Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, seeming disinterested.

She looked at the boys in their ordinary clothing – not yet changed into their school robes. As large as her desire was to make friends, she couldn't help but put on her bossy authoritative tone. "You might want to change into your robes, by the way. I expect we'll be arriving soon."

The boys stared at her blankly, and she continued her spiel. "I've been up front and had a word with the driver – he says we're nearly there. Anyway, I've got a toad to catch," she announced, making her excuses to leave, for the awkward silence was beginning to envelope her.

Just as she had nearly exited the compartment, she popped her head back in and addressed Ron, "By the way," she announced, "You have dirt on your nose. Just there," she said, gesticulating to the redhead's rather large conk, "Did you know?" And then she was gone, leaving two very bewildered boys in her way.

"Blimey," the one called Ron sighed. "She's mental, that one. I hope I'm not in her house."

"Me too," chuckled Harry, as elsewhere a frizzy haired brunette was perusing the length of the train in order to find a runaway amphibian.

Hermione was on the brink of giving up when she collided with a blonde haired boy, who greeted her with a sneer as she attempted to apologise profusely.

"Watch it, frizz ball," the boy sneered, the side of his lip quirking in an ugly smirk. Hermione shot him daggers with her eyes – her mother had warned her about children like this; ones who thought they ruled the school and had the right to push and bully other students around.

"You might want to wash out your mouth with soap," Hermione spat back as she made to get past the blonde, but two thug-like boys blocked her path.

"And who might you be, _Princess_," the blonde, who was clearly the ring leader smirked sarcastically. "Don't think I've seen you before."

"I'm a muggleborn," she announced proudly, "And one who would greatly like to get out of your presence, if you don't mind."

The boy recoiled as she announced her heritage, and sneered with a look of disgust on his face. "Watch it, Crabbe, Goyle," the boy spat, "Don't want to get cooties off the Mudblood," he snarled as he shoved past her roughly and made his way into one of the compartments further down the aisle.

Hermione nursed her bruised shoulder annoyed at the boy's clear lack of regard for others, and she felt her eyes brimming with tears at whatever he had called her. It didn't sound nice, whatever it was, and Hermione made up her mind to look it up when she got to Hogwarts. She was looking forward to exploring the extensive library which the Hogwarts headmaster had told her about.

She sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and putting on a façade of calm. She decided to abandon her search for Neville's toad, and a good thing too, for once she got back to her compartment, she was greeted with the sight of pet and master reunited. Neville was dejectedly picking lint off the creature, looking forlorn. It seemed she wasn't the only one who'd gotten off on a bad foot

She sighed exasperatedly, and sat down, attempting to enjoy the rest of the journey, as a blanket of darkness fell outside.


	3. A Bemused Old Man

**A/N: **Sounds like Professor Dumbledore's got his eye on our favourite Gryffindor - I wonder why? Read& review, please :) - Beth :) xx

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**Chapter Three: A Bemused Old Man**

Hermione was very much prepared for the sorting ceremony – unlike, she suspected, the majority of her peers. _Hogwarts A History _was a spectacularly thick tome and the bright witch doubted that someone like Harry or Ron had tried to tackle it. Whilst they had been waiting outside a pair of heavy oak doors, Hermione had been breathing deeply to calm herself, hearing the snickers being thrown her way by that repulsive blonde she'd met on the train, and his two cronies who would be lucky if they shared one brain cell between them.

Ron, the redhead that she'd been told about by the man her father had befriended on the platform was whispering to Harry about having to battle a troll in order to decide your placement into one of the four Hogwarts houses. Hermione rolled her eyes – if Ron was prepared to take on a fully grown mountain troll (which would be sincerely stupid for a first year to do, anyway) then she suspected he'd be disappointed when he met the sorting hat.

Her fellow students shrank back in terror as they were greeted by a tall, thin, and rather intimidating looking witch, who had her hair pulled into a tight bun, but Hermione looked up at her with wide eyes, admiring the older woman's grace and the way she carried herself. As they were led into the Great Hall, there were outward gasps as the students realised that the ceiling was non-existent – either that or it reflected exactly the night sky.

This prompted another eye roll from Hermione – if _anyone_ had taken the time to read _Hogwarts A History _then they would know that the ceiling was simply bewitched to look like that. Hermione muttered this to anyone who would listen to her; but mostly she was ignored. The other students were far to engrossed in looking around the hall than to listen to anything that a frizzy haired eleven year old had to say.

It seemed Ron and some of the other students who had heard his mutterings about a mountain troll and having to fight one visibly relaxed as the reached the front of the hall, walking down the hall past four long tables, which seated students of varying ages. Hermione presumed from a glance around that the tables were the different houses – and with a quick look at the Slytherin table, where it seemed everyone was sneering at the first years, she said a silent prayer, begging not to be put in the serpentine house. Then she'd _never_have any chance of making any friends.

On a stool at the front of the room was a hat, which Professor McGonagall – the steely witch had introduced herself before leading them all into the hall – picked up. She declared that names would be called alphabetically, students were to sit down on the stool – and then the tatty and emaciated looking hat would be placed on their heads in order to determine the house they would reside in whilst at Hogwarts School. Hermione gulped – the hat was grubby and could easily be mistaken for a piece of rubbish. She wondered how many dirty heads it had sat atop over the years, and suddenly, Hermione's biggest problem was putting that dirty thing on her head.

She took out her wand subtly, not noticing the twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore alight on her, curiously. She performed a simple swishing motion that she'd read about in one of her books, and muttered "Scourgify" under her breath. The corners of the headmaster's mouth twitched upwards as he followed the young witch's gaze to the hat, which after she'd performed the spell seemed somewhat less grubby. The brown colour of the hat was actually somewhat distinguishable – whereas before it had been hidden underneath layers of grime. Hermione smiled triumphantly, secretly extremely pleased that all the spells she had tried thus far had worked.

Hermione swallowed nervously, wiping the sweaty palms she had previously been unaware of on her robes. A quick glance round at the fellow first years told her that she wasn't the only one a little worried – Ron was a delightful shade of green, looking pretty close to vomiting, Draco Malfoy had a cruel sneer, but his eyes showed a glint of fear, and Hermione hurriedly looked away as he turned his gaze on her. She liked him even less, as before entering the great hall, he'd warned Harry Potter against being friends with the "wrong sorts of people" – referring to the redhead, Ron, who he was clearly friends with. Thankfully, Harry had had enough confidence to shoot the greasy haired blonde down, saying that he was perfectly capable of telling the wrong sorts for himself, thanks. Hermione had smiled at that – she always admired people who stuck up for both their own integrity, as well as their friends.

A girl called Hannah Abbott was called first, and she looked extremely nervous as she made her way up to the stool. Sitting down gingerly, the tight lipped Professor placed the now decidedly cleaner hat onto the girl's head.

Hermione blanked out as the girl was sorted – watching the reactions of the different tables as they received a new student. What Hermione assumed to be the Ravenclaw table was rather prim and proper – clapping politely and moving down the benches as a new student joined. She sniffed, not quite sure she wanted to be in a house with such upright individuals. The Gryffindor house by far gave the best welcome to its students, clapping and whooping like chimpanzees in a zoo. She couldn't help but smile, feeling warmed by their reactions. She nodded, astute in her decision making, and decided that she wanted to be in Gryffindor.

Perhaps it was this stubbornness, the way that the eleven year old had set out her goals crystal clear for the sorting hat to see when it was placed on her hat that made the mangy item of clothing deliberate for a few moments.

The girl was clever, that much was certain, thought the hat. But all he could see in her thoughts was her innate desire to be in Gryffindor. If a hat had the capability of shrugging, then this one probably would have.

There would be no reasoning with this girl, thought the hat. She had many noble traits of which Gryffindors were extremely proud of – and she was definitely brave, the hat thought, as it raced through memories of Hermione standing up to bullies in her younger years.

Hermione barely heard the word, "Gryffindor" that the hat uttered – for a deafening cheer enveloped her, as members of the cheery table clapped her on the back, and shook her hand merrily, welcoming to what they claimed was "by far the best house".

Another redhead introduced himself to her as Percy Weasley – and she took an immediate liking to the way he talked, prim and proper and very informative. Just up the young girl's street, she smiled to herself. She listened to him eagerly as he began explaining the roles and rituals of Hogwarts – pausing only to whoop excitably as Harry Potter joined Gryffindor. As everyone had realised that the boy who had survived the killing curse as a mere baby was present in the school, they fell into a subdued silence. This was only broken when the Gryffindor table erupted into a loud round of applause – harry collapsing in what seemed to be relief next to Hermione. Fred and George – two twins, who it appeared, were also siblings of Ron's – were chanting excitably, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" A small smiled played on her face, as Ron was also sorted into Gryffindor, and his brothers jumped on him, thumping him so hard on the back he nearly fell over.

She smiled, already liking being part of the Gryffindor house. She felt at home.

* * *

Harry was still being congratulated; it seemed, by every member of the Gryffindor house. He'd already been asked to push back his fringe in order to display his scar twice – and Hermione sniffed, thinking some of the other student's manners extremely rude. She had been so wrapped up in conversation with Percy that she'd barely noticed the other students who had come to be seated at the Gryffindor table. She smiled affectionately at Neville – the bumbling idiot she'd befriended on the train. He had a look of pure confusion, and it seemed to Hermione that he was trying to fathom how he'd ended up in Gryffindor. Hermione had assumed he'd be in Hufflepuff – and yet she'd been wrong. The young witch clearly didn't know _everything. _

Hermione craned her neck to clarify her suspicion – sure enough, the blonde haired boy who'd teased her on the train was seated over with the Slytherins, another smug smirk on his features, as if he had no doubt he would be sorted into the house which had produced more evil wizards than any other. She shuddered, as the blonde looked up and made eye contact with her, turning away quickly. For the rest of the meal Hermione had an unnerving feeling as if somebody was watching her. She shook it off, and tried to enjoy the speech that Professor Dumbledore gave, making a mental note of all the rules to which she swore to abide by.

"I won't keep you much longer as I know you're probably all hungry-" At the mention of food, Hermione found her own belly rumbling, and looked around, curious as to where all the food was due to come from – after all, the tables were laden with plates and cutlery, but no food. Curious, she thought, very curious. "-But I have a few important start of term announcements," the elderly wizard continued.

"Firstly, as always, Mr Filch our caretaker has asked me to remind you that the Forbidden Forrest is out of bounds to all unless accompanied by a teacher. Rule breakers will be dealt with severely," the wizard announced, with what could only be described as a pointed look in Fred and George's direction. They chuckled, looking brazenly back at the headmaster, whose eyes twinkled. "Furthermore, the corridor on the third floor is strictly forbidden, unless you wish to die a severely painful death," he spoke calmly, immune to the wide eyes around the room.

"And lastly, I want to welcome our new first years; I wish you a fruitful and enjoyable year here at Hogwarts. Who knows, perhaps a chance of decoration will be in order at the end of the year,"

The wizard smiled, his eyes twinkling. Hermione could have been mistaken, but for a strange reason she felt her eyes linger on her for a second longer than they perhaps should have. Was he trying to tell her something? Hermione paused in thought. There were a few boos from the Slytherin table – and Hermione took this to mean that they had won the house cup the previous year.

This was another thing she'd read about in the history of Hogwarts – she knew that students could earn and lose house points according to behaviour, and that the house cup was awarded to the house with the most. Percy had already warned her to be on best behaviour in Potions – the head of Slytherin, Snape, taught it, and apparently he didn't take too kindly to smart mouthed Gryffindors. Hermione resolved to keep her head down and her mouth buttoned.

Dumbledore held up his hands for silence. The room fell silent, as the elderly wizard proclaimed, "Let the feast begin!"

As if by magic, Hermione thought ironically, the tables in front of the students were instantaneously piled high with serving platters laden with chicken drumsticks, pies, roast potatoes, tureens of onion soup and thick chunky bread weighed down the table, almost groaning under the weight. Hermione grinned at the sight of all the food, positively ravenous, and tucked in.

Hermione paused chewing for long enough to regard the Weasley boys in pure fascination. She was somewhat amazed, but more disgusted, by the amount of food that they could fit in their mouth. Percy was the only Weasley using cutlery, she noted, as she turned her nose up, refusing to comment, putting a small portion of carrot in her mouth, and chewing.

* * *

Once the students were done with their first course, a selection of delightful puddings appeared, and Hermione was whole heartedly tucking into a portion of trifle, when there was a cough behind her. She turned around, alarmed, and found herself face to face with none other than Albus Dumbledore.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," the old wizard smiled kindly. "If you don't mind, I wish to talk to you in my office after dinner, ask Mr Weasley here to direct you," he gestured to Percy, and the redhead nodded whole heartedly. "After of course, he has shown you all your common room. That will be all, I recommend the treacle sponge," the bespectacled man announced, before gliding off to sit back down at the staff table.

A few of the Gryffindors were regarding her with wanton suspicion – what had she done to warrant Dumbledore's attention so early in the year?

Shrugging, and too interested by the scrumptious spread of food, most of the table forgot about it.

Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit put off her food, her stomach turning cartwheels as she wondered what on earth Professor Albus Dumbledore could have to say to her. She pushed her plate away, waiting patiently for the other students to finish.

A little longer, and the bright young witch would find out.


End file.
